Gypsy (The Cavy Files Book 1) (4 page)

Still, the fear refuses to leave. If anything, my uncertainty grows.

Under it all, the dragon looks toward the sky, trembling with anticipation.

“How long do I have to stay in the hospital?”

“Database searches should be complete any time now, and then we’ll know who you are.”

“You can do that?”

“Yes. Genetic files are kept on all citizens, so even if yours was never recorded we should be able to trace you back to the unique combination of your parents.”

My parents. I have
parents.

I mean, obviously. But the idea that they could be alive, that I could meet them and they could be happy to see me…
that
hardly seems possible.

The briefest worry over these genetic tests flickers in and out of my mind, but according to the Philosopher the pieces that make us different are microscopic, and not anything that would show up on a routine test.

Several ticks of the clock pass, the singular sound in the silent room. I don’t know what she’s waiting for me to say, and nothing coherent bangs around in my head. They think we’re simply kidnap victims. Nothing to be feared, nothing to be poked and prodded or even used. Hiding was one of our first lessons, and it seems to be working, even for those with more impressive and visible mutations.

How could they not know, though? There are records in the big house at Darley, all of our weekly and monthly test results, the rooms where we worked our puzzles with electrodes stuck to our heads. Heaven only knows the extent of the files in the Philosopher’s office. It doesn’t make sense, but Sandra seems unconcerned. As though finding the ten of us counts as a slightly-more-interesting-than-usual day, but not off the Richter.

“I have a couple more questions for you, dear, and then you can rest until the results of the blood tests come back.”

“Okay.”

“There were two children found in the flanker building next to the main house at Darley. Neither of them is responsive, and the doctors here have determined that their brains are abnormal. They might have been born that way, or maybe suffered some sort of brain trauma. Do you know them?”

The Unstables.

My fingers and toes go cold, turn to heavy blocks of ice that crackle toward my heart. I lick my lips, begging my mouth for moisture. “Yes. They were adopted as infants, the same as the rest of us. The—our caretakers are excellent doctors and have been working to correct their various issues for years.”

Fear courses through me. Excitement over the promise of a new life had knocked it into the background, but the truth is the Unstables could ruin everything. They can’t lie about what they are because they can’t communicate. Not traditionally. The tests and electrodes and heart-rate monitors and whatever else they’re hooked up to right now will reveal more than a few aberrations.

I suppose if the rest of us continue to act normal, there’s not much they can do to prove we’re
all
different. But the lack of trust in society instilled at Darley is stronger than I ever predicted, and it cripples me. Right now I’m trapped and helpless and practically naked in this room, and it’s freaking me out more than a smidgen.

The desperate need to see my friends, to speak with them, devours me.

“And what do you know about those issues?” she asks softly, her sharp gaze trying to tug loose answers.

I force another shrug, even though it feels like lifting boulders. “Nothing. Why would I?”

She smiles at me, and this time it’s sad. Relenting. “We just want to help them, Gypsy. We want to help all of you.”

I nod, not trusting her. Sure I’ll never trust anyone. She reaches out to pat my hand, but I jerk away. The day is slinking toward dusk, my first one in the real world, and I’ve managed not to touch a single person’s skin. The nurses and doctors wore gloves when they drew my blood.

Sandra’s smile slips, the first hint of irritation tightening her lips. She sighs, then stands and heads for the door. She turns at the threshold, her expression unreadable. “You know, you and the others are remarkably well adapted. We don’t think you were mistreated in any horrible way. I’ve seen worse by a long shot. But don’t make the mistake of believing that means the people caring for you did nothing wrong, Gypsy. There are many ways to harm a child. Some of them even look like helping, from the inside.”

Her gaze lingers on my face, ready to collect the slightest change in expression. I hold still, molding my eyes and lips and chin into a statute until she leaves.

The room feels safer without anyone else inside it. No one to ask questions or watch me like a hawk while all the things that can’t be uttered roll around in my brain like lead balls. I’ve never been alone before, though, not really, and the gut-punching force of true solitude brings me to my knees.

I curl into a ball on the bed, squeezing my physical eyes closed and using internal ones accessible only to me in order to follow the narrow glass pathway to our Clubhouse.

Our connected minds created a shared space before we could talk. It started off as an empty dome, and its decoration has been the source of many a good-natured argument and clandestine rearrangement, but after years of shifts and changes the room turned out comfortable and eclectic—a little bit of all of our minds.

The space is round, which we all agreed on, because it means there is no seat of power. The walls and ceilings are mirrors, good for practicing physical talents, and a clutter of end tables and coffee tables, lamps and pictures, fills most of the leftover surface. Trinkets and games, treasures we’ve seen around the house and grounds or in movies and then imagined here, spill over the tabletops in untidy piles. Thick shag carpet covers the floors. The furniture is mismatched but comfortable. My and Haint’s affinity for overstuffed, oversized modern chairs clashes with Reaper’s love of Louis XIV–era opulence. The twins scattered beanbags and papasan chairs here and there, which they assume are required “guy furniture” after viewing one too many university-set films.

Mole’s addition, a La-Z-Boy recliner, sinks under my weight this afternoon. It smells like him—fresh, with the faint scent of the herb garden he loves to tend. Mint and basil. I’m not alone, but the only other Cavy in the room is Vegetable, one of our three Unstables. He’s stretched out on the floor in front of the couch, gaze turned toward the ceiling, which looks like the night sky during the summer solstice.

He’s been comatose since infancy, when his telekinetic power dumped a full bookshelf right on his head. The nonphysical nature of our Clubhouse allows him to communicate more effectively than in real life, but he still can’t form complex speech. Evidence of his brain injury is displayed in his stunted vocabulary and his inability to string together compound thoughts and sentences, but Vegetable is one of us. He belongs here, and he was cared for at Darley. What happens to him now?

I’m pretty sure there’s no room for him in the world I’ve longed to try on for size.

He rolls his head in my direction with some effort, and raises an eyebrow.
“Okay?”

Tears gather in my eyes.
“No.”

“Quiet…”

“Yes. But the others will be back. You aren’t alone, V. You never will be.”

“Sure?”

Mole arrives before I can answer, and the sight of him hits me straight in the heart. I leap out of the chair and into his arms, and breathe him in for real. For some reason it pushes the tears down my cheeks.
“Where are you? Are you okay? What’s happening?”

“Hey, hey,”
he breathes, moving strands of hair on the top of my head. He pushes me away after a tight squeeze—not far, but so I can see his face.
“It’s okay. I think. The cops, or whatever they are this time, seem confused but not suspicious. They’re more interested in the Philosopher than us.”

My fingers dig into the fabric stretched over his strong shoulders, eyes roving over his thin waist, dark brown hair, and herb green eyes, trying to memorize exactly how it feels to touch him, to tilt my head slightly up to see his face. To soak up calm and comfort because we’re sharing oxygen.
“But what does it mean? What’s going to happen to us?”

Reaper steps over the threshold and collapses sideways into a supremely uncomfortable, high-backed chair, her feet dangling over one arm, and answers for him.
“We’re not going back to Darley. And we’re not staying together. Those two are for sure.”

Her downturned full lips punctuate the glum statement. Long, jet-black hair tumbles over her arm, less silky than usual, and oil shines on her olive skin. Jealousy is my default when it comes to Reaper’s appearance, but out of everyone, I envy her abilities the least.

Not touching people can get awkward for me, but trying not to kill random strangers with a stray thought must be a horrible lot of work.

The four of us sit in silence as the impact of her words sinks in—for me, they loose an uncomfortable mix of uncertainty, trepidation, and excitement. She’s right, but as far as I can tell, no one else sees finally leaving the confines of Darley as a perk. Other than that, we’re all on the same page.

Fear has a frequency, emits a shudder, a hum. We’re all vibrating with it.

“Well, I guess we’re finally going to get to test the range of this connection,”
Mole comments. It’s so him, to try to find the silver lining in this situation.

“It will still work. It has to.”
I’m determined to keep them. It never occurred to me that breaking free of the weight of the million unfulfilled expectations at Darley could mean losing my friends.

Mole’s arm snakes around my waist, tugging me close.
“We might not be able to live together at Darley anymore, Gyspy, but we’re never going to be truly separated. You know that.”

“Maybe we’re all glad we won’t have to listen to you snore anymore, Mole. Ever think about that?”
Reaper’s dry humor is well timed, as always, but none of us smile.

My true ears, not my mind, hear a knock, followed by the sound of an opening door.

“We have some good news for you, young lady.” The familiar voice floats from far away, as though underwater. It’s anchored in the physical realm.

“Have to go, y’all. Don’t be strangers.”
I snap back to the hospital room, rolling over and sitting up to see Sandra moving toward the bed.

She tucks a lock of graying hair back into her sensible bun, a triumphant smile lighting her aging but still attractive face. “Did you hear what I said, Gypsy? We’ve located your father. He should be here in less than an hour.”

Chapter Three

I’m too nervous to be good company. I tell Sandra I’m hungry, ask her for a sandwich to give her a task that will take her away for a while. She doesn’t return, which suggests she’s at least as perceptive as I suspect. Maybe more. A million questions buzz inside me, around me, on the backs of bees lost without a queen.

My father. He’s coming here.

I
want
my prevailing emotion to be excitement, maybe anticipation, but the movies depict too many bad fathers. He could be cruel, or disinterested, or a drunk. Besides, seeing as how he agreed to give me away before I was even born, there’s a good chance he’s not thrilled about my reemergence.

Will they make me stay with him if I don’t like him? If he doesn’t like me?

The social worker told me his name is Robert. A good, Southern name. The errant thought makes me smile, makes me wonder whether or not my own name will be similar. If I
had
a name before I found my way to Darley Hall. Sandra says she’ll let my father tell me that, as well as where I come from and the rest of my story.

My
father.

She did tell me that my mother is dead. Has been for a long time.

The news hit hard, like a category-five hurricane smashing into the shore, and eroded the hope I’ve harbored over the years until there’s nothing left. The dream that she’s out there, that one day she’ll realize she made a mistake and come find me, washes away, flung into the ether; it’s just one more thing that makes everything different now.

The hands on the wall clock keep ticking. I watch them, fighting panic. He might want me, he might not. He might be someone I’m proud of or he might be awful. There’s no way to know until he gets here, but either way, no more Darley. No more Inconsequential Gypsy.

Fifty-seven minutes pass before a face appears on the other side of the door. It’s pleasant and younger looking than I expect, and wears a shock of dark brown hair as a hat. It’s the same color as mine, and for some reason that tightens my throat. His eyes are dark, unlike my pale blue ones, and my mind immediately leaps to whether mine came from my mother.

There are so many questions, and they snarl together in a hopeless mess, wrestling across my mind with as much gusto as the twins muster on a lazy day. Which is still plenty.

The man raises an eyebrow, a silent request to enter. He steps into my space after I nod, warming it with a hesitant smile and a glisten in his eyes that betrays his own emotions. The fact that he cares about this moment at least as much as I do is written all over his expression, and it squeezes my heart. Feelings—happiness, trepidation, curiosity—spill into my blood until it’s way too hot in my room.